YEAR 299 AC
On the shores of Dragonstone…
Nightfall descended upon the ancient island fortress of Dragonstone, where a red comet was seen shooting across the open skies.
Standing upon the eponymous island bearing the same name in Blackwater Bay, Dragonstone was once the ancestral seat of the exiled House Targaryen.
Due to its advanced Valyrian design, the castle of Dragonstone was extremely difficult to breach, and a small garrison stationed there could easily hold its own against a vastly larger force.
On the beaches, an old maester, Cressen, was seen running towards the center of the area holding a lit torch.
As he arrived at his destination, an assembly of soldiers clad in dark armor bearing the sigil of House Baratheon enclosed in a fiery red heart stood alongside their lord watching the religious idols of the Faith of the Seven burn.
In front was a beautiful, voluptuous woman with fiery red hair and red eyes, wearing red robes and a red-gold choker with a large ruby around her neck.
She was a priestess, but not of Westerosi origins, for when she began chanting, her accent was of Asshai from the Free Cities of Essos.
To her followers, she was known as the red priestess Melisandre.
“Lord of Light, come to us in our darkness,” she prayed.
“We offer you these false gods.
Take them and cast your light upon us.
For the night is dark and full of terrors.”
“For the night is dark and full of terrors,” the assembled knights said in unison.
The religion being preached was known as the faith of R’hllor or alternatively known as the Lord of Light, a deity widely worshipped in several of the Free Cities of Essos described as a “fire god.” The Lord of Light was almost unheard of in Westeros; it was completely foreign to all but those who practiced the faith.
Cressen reached the group and handed his torch to another man, winded from his run.
“After the long summer, darkness will fall heavy on the world.
Stars will bleed,” Melisandre continued.
Cressen turned to the first person standing beside him, Ser Davos Seaworth.
Originally a poor commoner, Davos was a crabber’s son and an infamous smuggler, often piloting his black-sailed ship into harbors in the dead of night and navigating through treacherous shallows.
Davos eventually came into House Baratheon’s service during Robert’s Rebellion by sailing a small boat past the Tyrell blockade surrounding Storm’s End through Shipbreaker Bay and smuggling a shipment of onions, beef, pork, and salted fish to Lord Robert Baratheon’s younger brother Stannis and his men, who were starving under siege by Lord Mace Tyrell and the Redwynes.
The food allowed Stannis’s men to hold on until Lord Eddard Stark arrived to lift the siege.
As a reward for this service, Stannis knighted Davos, giving him choice lands on Cape Wrath and allowing him to choose Seaworth as the name of his new house.
However, also as a punishment for his years of criminal activity as a smuggler, Stannis personally “shortened” Davos’s left hand, cutting off the first joint from each finger of his left hand.
Despite this, Davos found Stannis’s ruling fair and just and kept the bones of his severed fingertips in a pouch around his neck as a lucky charm.
“We need to stop her!” Cressen beseeched Davos.
Davos held his hand up.
“Not now.”
“…The cold breath of winter will freeze the seas,” the red priestess continued, “and the dead shall rise in the North.”
Cressen had enough and walked forward, interrupting Melisandre.
“All you men were named in the light of the Seven!” he yelled.
“Is this how you treat the Gods of your fathers?
Are you so eager to spit on your ancestors?”
After a long silence, Melisandre approached Cressen and caressed his face.
“You smell of fear,” she spoke softly, “fear and piss and old bones.
Do you want to stop me?
Stop me.”
After a moment, Cressen begrudgingly stood aside.
“In the ancient books,” she continued, “it’s written that a warrior will draw a burning sword from the fire.
And that sword shall be Lightbringer.”
Melisandre walked over to the Lord of Dragonstone standing before her, Lord Stannis Baratheon.
The middle of the three Baratheon brothers, Stannis was a seasoned warrior and an accomplished military commander who served on the Small Council as Master of Ships to his older brother, the late King Robert I Baratheon, before leaving the capital to return to his stronghold.
A brooding, puritanical, and humorless man, Stannis possessed a harsh but fair sense of justice.
He believed the world should be just, that somehow the world should be just, and the consequences of justice would be that the order would be carried out.
As a warrior, Stannis would always fight for what he believed in even if it meant being the first man on the battlefield and the last one to leave.
Stannis gained the respect of his men during the rebellion when he held Storm’s End with only 500 men while the castle was under siege from Targaryen loyalists by land and sea for almost a year.
He and his men avoided starvation by eating the horses, cats, dogs, and rats before Davos’s arrival.
He still remained slighted at being stripped of his right of inheritance to Storm’s End by Robert when his older brother claimed the Iron Throne, knowing full well that their youngest brother Renly was only a boy at the time and never fought a day in his life.
Regardless, insult or no, Stannis’s sense of duty and loyalty compelled him to give up his rights to Storm’s End.
“Stannis Baratheon, warrior of light, your sword awaits you.” Melisandre pointed to the sword embedded in the flaming statue.
Stannis approached one of the burning effigies as everyone else looked on.
He pulled a sword out from the base and carried it high, to applause.
When he stuck it in the sand, the crowd knelt.
“Lord, cast your light upon us!” the crowd proclaimed.
“For the night is dark and full of terrors,” Melisandre prayed, looking to Stannis.
The Lord of Dragonstone stood before his troops, speaking up.
“For the night is dark and full of terrors.”
Stannis then walked away, almost forgetting to bring his wife with him.
The rest of the crowd got up to leave moments later.
Davos and Cressen stayed behind a moment to talk.
“This woman will lead him into a conflict with the king,” Cressen warned.
“Maybe,” Davos suggested.
“But what happens here is between Stannis and his nephew.”
“You really think the Oathkeeper will accept what happened here?”
“I don’t like it, either, but I serve Stannis.”
“As do I, but loyal service means telling hard truths.
He’s surrounded by fools and fanatics, but he trusts you, Davos.
And he’s the King’s uncle.
If you tell them the truth…”
“He’s already received a raven from King’s Landing.
No doubt the two will have much to say to each other once they meet.”
At King’s Landing…
More than a year had passed since the Oathkeeper, Daveth Baratheon, ascended the Iron Throne.
Now that he was eighteen years of age, Lord Eddard Stark announced his abdication from the regency and officially transferred the title of Protector of the Realm to King Daveth.
With Eddard no longer acting as regent or protector of the realm and returned to his duties as hand of the king, the Seven Kingdoms and all its nine administrative regions largely fell under the young stag’s control as he moved to further solidify his power base.
During the first year of his reign, Daveth helped to eliminate the Iron Throne’s financial debts to House Lannister and the Iron Bank of Braavos at a fast rate by calling in favors, negotiating new trade deals, cracking down on investors defrauding creditors, and repaying millions of gold dragons owed to his grandfather Lord Tywin Lannister and the Iron Bank itself.
Keeping his word to his contacts living in the slums of Flea Bottom, Daveth had workers renovate and construct a sewage system to properly dispose of the city’s wastes.
It was an incredibly exhausting task, but with the Iron Throne’s debts paid, the royal coffers could start being filled again in preparation for the upcoming winter.
“Winter is coming” is what Eddard would occasionally tell Daveth.
According to reports from the various maesters scattered across Westeros and his contacts stationed at the Citadel, this 10-year-long summer had been declared officially over—the longest summer in living memory.
Daveth was seen walking through the halls of the Red Keep with some of his councilors.
“The raven arrived from the Citadel this morning, Your Grace,” Grand Maester Pycelle spoke.
“The conclave has met, considered reports from maesters all over the Seven Kingdoms, and declared this great summer done, at last.
The longest summer in living memory.”
Varys chimed in.
“The peasants say a long summer means an even longer winter.”
“A common superstition.”
“As it stands, Your Grace, we have enough wheat for a five-year winter,” Petyr said as he handed Daveth the latest report, shrugging indifferently.
“If it lasts any longer than that, well…”
“Then we will lack the necessary crops needed to keep our people fed when dealing with a rather protracted winter,” Daveth deduced, “and not enough peasants to sow the fields.
We’d be facing a serious food shortage if that scenario actually does occur.” He looked up from the paper and turned to the Hand of the King.
“Lord Stark, were you able to send word to Winterfell before this came in?”
Eddard nodded.
“I did, Your Grace.
Maester Luwin has informed me the bushels and grain stores would only suffice for the same number of years.”
“Hmm.
More reports like this are coming from seemingly everywhere…”
“Your Grace…?” Pycelle inquired.
“It’s nothing, my lords.
We’ll have a moment to worry about that within the next few days.
If we’re lucky, my contacts should be able to secure the necessary provisions needed to endure the seasonal changes by then.
For now, you’re all dismissed.”
As they bowed their heads, both Daveth and Eddard stood in front of the Iron Throne in the Great Hall.
“Hard to believe it’s been more than a year already,” Daveth remarked.
Eddard smiled.
“Not many rulers tend to have the luxury of time on their side.
But those who prove fortunate enough often find themselves becoming sentimental.”
“Did you just take a jab at me, my Lord Hand?”
“No, Your Grace, I assure you I did not.
You’ve been working from dawn till dusk dealing with the crown’s debts.
Sometimes I wonder how you managed to pull it off so quickly.”
“It wasn’t easy, but I have my ways.
In any event, we should be getting ready to fill the treasury so the people won’t starve or freeze.
Here’s to hoping that the negotiations come through in our favor.”
Eddard raised an eyebrow.
“What negotiations?”
Daveth took a moment to explain.
“I’ve had my contacts meet with several trading merchants from the Free Cities of Lys and Myr.
They’ve been asking for a decent bargain.
Imposing, reducing, or lifting tariffs, modernizing trade agreements…
Provided that the merchant lords of Essos don’t try to cheat us, the realm might get what it needs.”
“Lys?
Myr?
Why not the Reach?”
“We’ve heard no word from Highgarden or any of the noble houses of the Reach.
Not a raven has been sent, no simple rider with a message… I find it to be… rather odd as of late.”
“Why wouldn’t Highgarden send word?
It doesn’t make sense.”
“None of this makes sense, Lord Stark.
But whatever it is, I can guarantee you… this sudden silence is making me feel a bit uneasy.
And I want to know why.”
At the Tower of the Hand…
Sansa had been in her room sewing with her friend Jeyne Poole, threading a needle through silk and leather as she hummed a melody.
More than a year had already passed since she had arrived at King’s Landing with her father and sister.
During that time, she had already blossomed into a beautiful young woman with a more slender, womanly figure; growing up a bit more mature since coming to the capital, Sansa took a moment to learn more of court intrigue.
While she did prove to be a bit of a slow learner—which irritated Daveth to no end—she learned, nonetheless.
That alone was enough to satisfy Daveth before he left to either attend another Small Council meeting or settle minor trading disputes.
While she was humming, Sansa groaned as she felt an uncomfortable cramp in her belly.
She’d been having these bouts randomly, looking back at how it happened.
ooOoo
When the sun rose and shone its light into her room, Sansa had been sleeping but felt increasingly uncomfortable.
By the time she awoke from her dream, Sansa felt something wet and pulled off the sheets.
Slowly lifting up her nightgown, Sansa looked down and saw blood staining her dress as well as the sides of her thighs.
She whimpered at first, never having experienced anything like this before, but knew what it meant: she’d flowered.
In her haste, she picked up a wet cloth and repeatedly scrubbed the mattress, trying to get it cleaned up.
“Hey, hey, hey.
What are you doing?” Eddard spoke as he entered his daughter’s room, taking Sansa’s hand before finally noticing what she was trying to clean.
“Father, if the Queen Mother sees this… I can have Daveth’s children now,” Sansa explained.
Eddard sent for some handmaidens to clean up the mattress, but what he failed to notice was that among them was one of Cersei’s maids, Bernadette, who immediately rushed to the Red Keep to inform the Queen Mother.
Despite his best attempts to stop her, Eddard was stopped by Sandor Clegane, and both Cersei and Daveth were informed.
By that time, Sansa was already sitting next to Cersei Lannister.
“Your mother might have prepared you,” Cersei explained.
“You flowered, my dear.
No more.”
“My mother told me, but I… thought it would be different,” Sansa confessed.
“I thought it would be less… less messy.”
“Wait until you’ve birthed a child,” Cersei stated.
“You’re a woman now.
Do you have any idea what that means?”
“I’m fit to bear children for the king?” asked Sansa.
Cersei gave a wry smile.
“A prospect that delighted you, I can see.
I will not fault you for that.
The idea of bringing little princes and princesses into the world—it is the greatest honor for a queen,” she said as she began reminiscing about the first time she gave birth.
“Daveth was the most difficult.
He almost killed me.
Even his birth…
I labored for nearly two days trying to bring him into this world.
You cannot imagine the pain.
I screamed so loudly, I was sure Robert would hear me in the Kingswood.”
“His Grace was not with you?”
“Robert?” she scoffed bitterly.
“Robert was out hunting.
That was his custom.
Whenever my time was near, my royal husband would flee to the trees with his huntsmen and his hounds.
And when he returned, he would present me with some pelts or a stag’s head, and I would present him with a baby.
Not that I wanted him there, mind you.
I had Grand Maester Pycelle, an army of midwives, and I had my brother.
When they told Jaime he wasn’t allowed in the birthing room, he smiled and asked which one of them proposed to keep him out.
” Cersei stopped for a moment, looking out of the window before returning her gaze to Sansa.
“Daveth will show you an even greater devotion than Robert did with me.
You could thank him for striving to be a different kind of man than his father; no doubt he’s already told you the stories.
Robert shamed and humiliated me, but Daveth will do no such thing to you.
He’s seen what I had to endure.
You love the king, I can see that, but remember to love his children.”
“I love His Grace with all my heart,” Sansa professed.
Cersei sighed, knowing full well that the feelings were genuine.
“That’s so very touching to hear,” she said as she shifted in her seat.
“Permit me to share some womanly wisdom with you on this very special day.
The more people you love, the weaker you are.
You’ll do things for them that you know you shouldn’t do.
You’ll act the fool to keep them safe.
Love no one but your children.
On that front, a mother has no choice.”
“There’s always a choice, Your Grace.
I can choose to love Daveth and our children as well.”
A half-smile flickered across the Queen Mother’s face.
It would appear that the gentle Sansa had developed a spine.
“I see a bit of Daveth’s influence has rubbed off on you,” she suggested.
“Very well, little dove.
I won’t deny you that, but in the end love is poison.
A sweet poison, yes, but it will kill you all the same.
Or… it would kill my son.”
ooOoo
The conversation with the Queen Mother unsettled her, but at least Sansa got some insight as to what to expect.
She was also informed that since she’d flowered, the plans for the royal wedding would now officially begin, something that allowed her to smile when Princess Myrcella exclaimed with glee that she was excited she was going to have a sister.
Joffrey was being himself as always, occasionally hurling rude comments, which always ended with Daveth shouting and asserting his dominance in case the lesser Baratheon didn’t get the message.
Sansa resumed her stitching as she began putting the finishing touches on the new outfit.
She held it up and examined it closely.
“I hope Daveth likes it,” she sighed.
Sansa put a great deal of effort into making this new outfit for him.
“You’re worrying too much, Sansa,” Jeyne reassured her.
“The King will like whatever you offer him.”
“Maybe.
Still, I can’t help but feel a bit anxious.
Ever since the royal wedding was announced, it’s all I could even think about.”
“So… When’s the big day?”
“I don’t know.
It’s mostly being done in secret.
My betrothed told me he’ll send word once it’s done.”
The two girls laughed as they continued to share secrets and talk about the upcoming wedding all while munching on some freshly baked lemon cakes.
But little did she know, trouble was soon brewing and was about to complicate things…
In Daveth’s chamber…
A series of footsteps were heard running through the hallway as Daveth spent his time reviewing documents from the Westerlands, Riverlands, and Free Cities merchants.
He’d been awake for quite some time and couldn’t concentrate due to the distraction coming from outside, the noise getting louder and nearer.
Finally, without warning, the door sprang open.
“Your Grace!” Bodrin shouted.
Daveth turned his head at the door, frustrated with the sudden and rude interruption.
“What is it now?” he demanded, slightly irritated.
Bodrin took a moment to compose himself.
“We’ve just received word from both the Stormlands and the Reach… and…”
“What about them?”
“It’s your uncle, Lord Renly…”
Daveth slowly stood to his feet, theorizing what it was that his contact was telling him.
“Renly Baratheon has called his banners and taken up arms against you, Your Grace… He’s declared himself king, and the Reach has joined forces with him.”